artist self-harvest

Back from first day of “internship,” if that’s what you’d call it.  Sampled some Zinfandel barrels, vintage ’10, as well as learn from the oenologist about acid levels, whole cluster pressing, and other phenolic attributes.  Want some coffee, but don’t want to risk waking Jack.  Tomorrow, project R launch.  I’ll copy syllabus later in day, from my own pocket.  Looking at it like a Self-published work, that’s the level of pride I’m taking in this class.  Oh, which reminds me.. there are some notes in my back pocket, in the little pages, that I need for day 1’s lecture.  So excited to be back in the classRoom.  My student blend, what will it render in character, collectively and individually?

Just looked through little notes, and found a dialogue snippet from a coworker.  J said, “It smells like a penny in here.” Not sure how meaningful the line is, just thought it was interesting, random, strangely funny.  I remember I was standing behind the counter in the wine club member room, towards day’s end, when he said this.  Going to be a long day tomorrow, but it’s going to work for me in a number of ways.  Well, one way.. for the writing.  Bought two new Comp Books on way to the winery, this morning.  1, for winemaking notes [Tuesday mornings, and otherwise], and 2, for this Kelly novel I keep dipping in, out of.  Already posted to both blogs today.  Little spoken word to bx, and a photo I shot yesterday [with phone] to 1Stop.  Hoping for 1 more post [at least] per site before day’s end.  Was reading a friend’s blog just a minute ago, how she’s in Vegas on a business trip.  I’m almost there, to the road, to my motioned pages, all in another new Comp Book.  Or, no.. just the one I have upstairs, the older one.  Vegas, an interesting stage.  Is it Literary?  Well, with my perspective, yes.  So many characters, so much temptation, so much motion.  Had a guest in the tasting Room the other day that said he retired early ‘cause he hated all the travel his job demanded.  How could you hate travel, those strange hotel Rooms, dinning out [or in, your Room]?  He’s not a writer; He doesn’t have my sensitive sense of space, place.  And that’s not a fault of his, I just understand why someone like him wouldn’t like being on the road.  Of course, I don’t want to be mobile too frequently.. I have a little boy.  And I hate being away from him, my Little Kerouac.  But, in same, I need travel.  I need difference.  I need unfamiliar.  Excess domesticity will kill Artistry.

Quiet in castle.  I just think of what I would write on the road, from a hotel Room.  Probably about what I’m seeing from that floor.  Or, what’s around me in a restaurant in earshot of slot machines, casino ruckus.  Or what if I was in Miami like my sister was a couple months ago?  Would probably just write to the ocean, explain how this moment’s peace persists unique, holds me without speech.  After running on beach, return to Room, write about sights, what I saw, heard, what white I’ll start with.. Sauv Blanc?  Chard?  Maybe a dry Gerwurtz?  Depends on when my evening pouring is.  I’ll wait till after, have a Pinot.  Would love to pour out-of-state, like my friend, help my wine grow as a “brand.” Ugh, still hate that word.  BRAND, sounds so mechanized, so commercial, so soulless.  Just want to make my wine, travel with it, write in those legs.  How is that unreasonable?  Oh wait, is it?  Dreams, caressing best of me.

10:14pm.  Finding many of my former students support and wish me well on tomorrow’s re-entry.  One of my formers, A.C., stated that she was glad she experienced my whole “Let the monster expose itself for what it is” lecture, as she was recently confronted with a bit of bigotry.  Humbled I’ve positively rippled in certain capsules.  My syllabi, at ready.  Even a full lecture typed, copied.. and a page from Plath’s collection.  This semester, sure to put me on Stanford’s campus.  I don’t even know how to begin2thank my former students.  They still support me, have my back.  I need to be a soldier this semester for them, as well as these new seated sights.

Sipping some ’11 Sauv Blanc.  Still in winemaker mode, after today’s lab visit.  Thieving those Zin barrels had me thinking of authors inspired by other scribes.  I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, as long as some integrity’s paginated, crystalized.  I know me.. all tomorrow in tasting Room, or on mountain, I’ll be thinking of my first lecture.  What a great sales angle, I realize.  Or maybe I should keep it to mySelf, be “low-key,” as Dad has always urged.  Think that’s what I’ll do, just envision what’s hours ahead, back on the road to Stanford.

Last sips of this SB, reflecting on amplitude of days summed.  I’m 33, and I think finally at Equilibrium’s border.  What would Kelly say?  “You deserve it,” probably.  What would Little London say?  “Good for you, Papa.” If anyone ever thinks I’m Self-centered, egocentric, they surely don’t know degrees to which I value opinions of ones loved.  Taking smaller SB sips, hoping it tells me something different.  Thinking I might do mine in ALL neutral oak.  But I don’t want it TOO neutral, as I learned today the perils of bacteria.  Have to call Kaz tomorrow, find out when my our Blanc’s touching down, as I’m finding more and more are pulling clusters now.  Seeing Self as cluster of Artful, Literary, POETIC activity, ready to be picked from domesticity’s dungeon.  It’s time, for me, my pages, words.  Edgy?  Maybe.  No, definitely.  And I’ll approach the classRoom with the same rattle.  At the end of day’s thousand, I think of travel, lecturing at out-of-state campuses on student empowerment through writing, journaled persistence.  I’m near my pick from normality’s, domesticity’s cordon.  Thinking of her comments on the monster.  They’re out there.  But writers aren’t timid.  Not in the least.  You’ll not only be exposed.. you’ll be thrown from your boastful throne.

(9/4/12, Tuesday)